"You hear things. About certain people anyway."

Her brown eyes bored into Budd's, which were green, exceedingly embarrassed, and growing more and more flummoxed by the second. He rubbed his cheek with his left hand again, just to give her a view of his ring once more, then thought: Hey, get real. You actually think she's coming on to you? No way, he told himself. She's making polite talk to a local rube. "Better see if there's anything Arthur needs," Budd said. For some reason he stuck his hand out toward her. Wished he hadn't, but there it was and she reached out, took it in both of hers, and squeezed it hard, stepping close. He smelled perfume. It seemed entirely unnatural for FBI agents to be wearing perfume.

"I'm real glad we're working together, Charlie." She fired a smile at him, the likes of which he hadn't seen in years – since Meg, in fact, had crosshaired him at the junior prom with one of those flirtations that he never would've believed the president of Methodist Girls' Youth Group was capable of.

4:40 P.M.

"Twenty minutes to deadline," Tobe Geller called.

Potter nodded. He punched the speed-dial button. Handy answered by saying, "I've picked the next little bird, Art."

Get off the subject of the hostages; keep him thinking they're valueless. Potter said, "Lou, we're working on that helicopter. It isn't that easy to get one."

"This one's a little trouper, she is, Art. That fat one cried and cried. Man, did that bug me. This one's shedding a tear or two but she's a soldier. Got a fucking tattoo on her arm, you can believe it."

Share some observations. Show him you're concerned, find out a few things about him.

"You sound tired, Lou."

"Not me. I'm right as rain."

"Really? Would've guessed you were up all night planning your big getaway."

"Naw, got my full eight hours. 'Sides, there's nothing like a Mexican standoff to get the old juices flowing." In fact he didn't sound at all tired. He sounded relaxed and at ease. Potter nodded toward LeBow but the officer was already typing.

"So tell me. What's so hard about a chopper, Art?"

Potter trained the glasses out the window at the brown-haired, long-faced girl. He'd already memorized the names and faces. Punching the mute button, he said to Angie, "It's Shannon Boyle. Tell me about her." Then into the phone: "I'll tell you what's so hard, Lou," Potter snapped. "They don't grow on trees and they aren't free."

You're worried about fucking money at a time like this?

"Fuck, you got all the money you need. What with everything you assholes steal from us taxpayers."

"You a taxpayer, Lou?"

"We ain't buying nuclear bombs anymore so spend a little on a chopper and save some lives here."

Angie tapped his shoulder.

"Hold on a second, Lou. Word's coming in about that chopper right now."

"She's eight," Angie whispered, "prelingually deaf. No lip-reading skills to speak of. She's got a personality of her own. Very independent. She's marched in protests to get deaf deans at schools for the deaf in Kansas and Missouri. Signed the petition to increase the deaf faculty at Laurent Clerc and hers was the largest signature on the sheet. She's been in fistfights at school and she usually wins."

Potter nodded. So if they could distract him enough, and if she had an opportunity, the girl might make a run for freedom.

Or use the chance to attack Handy and get herself killed in the process.

He clicked the mute button off. Sounding exasperated: "Look, Lou. We're just talking about a little delay is all. You want a big aircraft. Well, we've got two-seaters galore. But the big ones're hard to find."

"That's your fucking problem, ain't it? I put a bullet into little Fannie Annie here in, lemme see, fifteen minutes by my clock."

Usually, you devalue the hostages.

Sometimes you just have to beg.

"Her name's Shannon, Lou. Come on. She's only eight years old."

"Shannon," Handy mused. "I guess you aren't catching on, Art. You're trying to get me to feel sorry for some poor kid's got a name. Shannon Shannon Shannon. Those're your rules, right, Art? Written up in your Feebie handbook?"

Page 45, in fact.

"But see, those rules don't take into account somebody like me. The more I know them the more I want to kill 'em."

Walk that fine line. Chide, push, trade barbs. He'll back off if you hit the balance just right. Arthur Potter thought this but his hand cramps on the receiver as he said cheerfully, "I think that's bullshit, Lou. I think you're just playing with us."

"Have it your way."

A little edge in the agent's voice: "I'm tired of this crap. We're trying to work with you."

"Naw, you want to shoot me down. Why don't you have the balls to admit it? If I had you in my sights I'd drop you like a fucking deer."

"No, I don't want to shoot you, Lou. I don't want anybody to die. We've got a lot of logistic problems. Landing is a real hassle here. The field out front's filled with those old posts from the stockyard pens. And we've got trees everywhere. We can't set a chopper down on the roof because of the weight. We -"

"So you've got diagrams of the building, do you?"

Negotiate from strength – with a reminder to the HT that there's always a tactical solution in the back of your mind (we can kick in the door any time we want and nail you cold, and remember, there're a hell of a lot more of us than of you). Potter laughed and said, "Of course we do. We've got maps and charts and diagrams and graphs and eight-by-ten color glossy photos. You're a damn cover boy in here, Lou. This's no surprise, is it?"

Silence.

Push too far?

No, I don't think so. He'll laugh and sound cool.

It was a chuckle. "You guys're too fucking much."

"And the field to the south," Potter continued, as if Handy hadn't spoken, "look at it. Nothing but gullies and hummocks. To set an eight-person copter down'd be pretty dangerous. And this wind… it's a real problem. Our aviation advisor isn't sure what to do about it."

Budd frowned, mouthing, "Aviation advisor?" Potter shrugged, having just made up the job. He pointed to the "Deceptions" board and Budd wrote it down, sighing.

Silver tools, wrapped in plastic, new.

Potter desperately wanted to ask what they were for. But of course he couldn't. It was vitally important that Handy not realize what they knew about the inside of the barricade. Even more vital: if Handy suspected the released hostages were giving Potter quality information he'd think twice about releasing others.

"Art," Handy spat out, "I keep saying, them's your problems." But he was not as flippant now and part of him at least seemed to realize that this had become his problem.

"Come on, Lou. This's just a practical thing. I'm not arguing about the chopper. I'm telling you we're having trouble finding one and that I'm not sure where we can set it down. You got any ideas, I'll be happy to take 'em."

Hostage negotiation strategy calls for the negotiator to avoid offering solutions to problems. Shift that burden to the taker. Keep him in a problem-solving mode, uncertain.

A disgusted sigh. "Fuck."

Will he hang up?

Finally Handy said, "How 'bout a pontoon chopper? You can do that, can't you?"

Never agree too quickly.

"Pontoon?" Potter said after a moment. "I don't know. We'd have to look into it. You mean, set her down in the river."

"Course that's what I mean. Where'd you think, land in some fucking toilet somewhere?"

"I'll see about it. If there's a sheltered cove it might work out perfectly. But you'll have to give us more time."

You don't have more time.

"You haven't got any more time."

"No, Lou. Pontoons'd be perfect. It's a great idea. I'll get on it right away. But let me buy some time. Tell me something you want."